Pain and Purity
by Heiress7Muzzy
Summary: The final battle has commenced, and yet the outcome is unexpected. Neither party is declared victorious, and both Harry and Voldemort are not dead. Voldemort has taken Draco, and Harry is hurting.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **Pain and Purity

**Disclaimer: **This story is based entirely on the story J.K. Rowling has written. She owns all of the characters, ideas, credit and copyright. This story is made simply for enjoyment and no money is being made from this. No offence intended. No copyright infringement intended.

**Warnings: **Eventual slash, angst, violence

**Pairings: **Eventual Harry/Draco, Ron/Hermione

**Summary: **The final battle has commenced, and yet the outcome is unexpected. Neither party is declared victorious, and both Harry and Voldemort are not dead. Voldemort has taken Draco, and Harry is hurting.

**Author's Note: **I am very new to writing fanfiction, and constructive criticism and suggestions are welcome. I have quite a few stories I'm working on, most of them Drarry-related. If you're a Drarry shipper, take the time to check out some of my other works and tell me what you think. The next chapter of this will be up shortly.

**Prologue**

"_Avada Kedavra!_"

"_Expelliarmus!_"

A jet of bright green light issued from Lord Voldemort's wand, while red issued from Harry's own. The two jets of light collided with such force that the tremors could be felt all over the grounds of Hogwarts, where the Wizarding War II was currently taking place.

Harry had a sudden sense of déjà vu as arcs of light from the point of the collision began crisscrossing to form a dome encasing him and Voldemort, almost in repetition of the graveyard duel three years ago.

Once the dome of light had encircled them, beads of light began sliding up and down the connecting beam of their wands. Harry, recalling the memories from his fourth year, willed all his power into forcing the beads in the direction of Voldemort's wand tip.

For some reason, the Dark Lord was not, or could not, fight back. His snake-like face was contorted with concentration, and yet the beads were slowly but surely inching towards his wand, away from Harry's. Pretty soon the process of Finite Incantatem had begun. Harry watched with trepidation as ghostly forms, victims of the war, forced their way out and took up patrolling the edges of the dome.

Just as the ghostly shadow of a student in Hufflepuff school robes was forcing her way out, Voldemort seemed to come back to himself. With a vicious upward wrench, he severed the connection between the two wands. The dome vanished, as did the ghostly forms that had previously patrolled its edges.

Harry and Voldemort just stood there warily, both breathing heavily, drained from maintaining the Finite Incantatem. Harry didn't even bother raising his wand to defend himself against any possible attacks. He was both physically and mentally drained, and the crucial moment when the victory should have been decided had turned into a reenactment of the scene in the graveyard.

How was that possible, though? Voldemort had the Elder Wand, and he had Malfoy's. The ludicrous idea that perhaps the Elder Wand and Malfoy's were brothers, much like Voldemort's and his own, flitted through his head, and he wondered briefly whether that was even possible. How could two wands that had been made in two different ages share wand cores? He dismissed the notion for the moment, as there was a bloody war going on.

He was brought back to earth by the high, cold voice of his archenemy saying, "Come, Draco. Let us go."

Harry whipped his head up and stared uncomprehendingly at Voldemort. What was he going on about? Was he actually leaving without ending the war? Was he going without killing Harry? Would they have to wait for some other time to finish this? Why did his life have to be so fucking messed up?

"Draco," Voldemort hissed, scarlet pupils narrowing to slits as he scanned the Great Hall, searching for the single surviving Death Eater.

Harry wouldn't have blamed Malfoy if he had run away, or attempted suicide at that moment. Both seemed far better options than going to the Dark Lord's side, especially after he had failed at killing Harry yet again, and he looked mad enough to petrify a Basilisk.

But Malfoy was both braver and stupider than Harry had ever given him credit for. With the glares of everyone in the Hall on him, he went over to stand before Voldemort, staring fixedly at a point on the far wall.

Voldemort bent and whispered something in Malfoy's ear, who turned the same shade as Muggle skin-care product commercial models, before giving a shaky nod. He rolled back the sleeve of his left arm, exposing the Dark Mark tattooed onto the pale skin there.

Voldemort pressed the tip of the Elder Wand to the Mark, which glowed scarlet. The snake protruding from the mouth of the skull seemed to come to life, slithering and twisting until it was rather like a 'U' coming out of the skull. The process must have hurt a lot, because Malfoy had dug his fingernails into his palms so hard, there were ten bleeding crescents marked on his pale skin when he unclenched his hands.

Without another word, Voldemort grabbed Malfoy by the arm, and the two disappeared without so much as an Apparition _crack_.

At once, the crowd seemed to wake up from their stupor. They converged on Harry, demanding information, speculating on the outcome of the war, and what it would mean for the future. A crowd of Order members were already assembling to track down Voldemort and Malfoy, while others began tending to the wounded.

Harry wandered by in a daze, unable to grasp what had just happened. Why had the two wands refused to work with each other again? Could it be that the Elder Wand and Malfoy's shared wand cores? Or maybe Ollivander was wrong, and it actually had something to do with the casters? Would he and Voldmort never be able to just end this? Would they have to keep this up for the rest of their lives?

He refused to think of how many more wars, and deaths, that might mean. One war was bad enough. It had already taken Remus, Tonks, Fred, Mad-Eye, Dobby, Collin, and who knew how many others that hadn't deserved to die. He was so confused, and so frustrated, he wanted to scream.

He hated his life, hated the things he did, hated the things he had to do. All that being the Boy Who Lived had brought him was being the Boy Who Lived To See Others Die. He couldn't stand it. He just couldn't.

Harry whirled and all but fled the Hall, sprinting through the wreckage of the castle and out onto the battle-scorched grounds. He didn't stop until he was all the way out on the Quidditch pitch, where he just stood there and screamed. He yelled until his voice was hoarse, he cried until his eyes were stinging, and still he kept on screaming and crying, venting out all his anger, frustration and sorrow.

When at last he couldn't even manage a whisper, he felt hands on his shoulders, and looked to see Ron and Hermione on either side of him, comforting him. He couldn't stand how selfless they were being. Ron had just lost a brother, Hermione had suffered as much as anyone, and yet here they were, trying to soothe him.

Despite feeling that he should be the one comforting them, Harry was immensely grateful all the same. "Thanks," he said, though no sound came out.

"No problem, mate, we'd never let you go through this alone," said Ron, patting his shoulder comfortingly.

"We'll always be there for you, Harry," said Hermione, giving him a somewhat teary smile, "You know we love you, right?"

All Harry could manage was a nod before he had flung his arms around his two best friends, pulling the trio into a group hug. His heart considerably lighter, Harry made his way back up to the castle with Ron and Hermione.

War was cruel, it meant making sacrifices and enduring pain. It meant sacrificing your life to save the one you loved, or enduring the pain of living while knowing your loved one sacrificed their life to save yours.

But war was also a reminder of how strong love was. Survivors would always remember those that died, and learn to love others and treasure life. Harry knew he was lucky, that he had survived, and that he had people in the world who loved him.

The outcome of the war, and what it would mean, was a problem to deal with another day, another time. For now, he knew that his one triumph over Voldemort would always be love.

Harry loved Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Luna, Neville and many others, who also loved him back. Voldemort had no one. He functioned on hate alone, and had never learnt to love.

He would make sure the next time he and Voldemort came face to face in battle, he would teach the bald, noseless bastard why not knowing how to love was going to get him a V.I.P. pass to hell.

TO BE CONTINUED…


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 1**

"Where d'you reckon he's gone, though?" Ron asked, toying with a Fanged Frisbee, while he lounged back on his bed, "It's been over a month now."

"I dunno, he's made them Untrackable, hasn't he?" Harry replied, glaring moodily at the empty portrait of Phineas Nigellus Black.

"All magic leaves traces, Harry," said Hermione consolingly, taking her nose out of the book she was currently relentlessly pursuing to look up at them, "Voldemort's magic is so strong it would be almost impossible to mask."

"But I thought, with Malfoy's Dark Mark, he made the two of them Untrackable?" Ron asked, his brow furrowing in confusion, as he let go of the Frisbee, which whizzed around the room, baring its fangs at Pig, who was snoozing in his cage on top of the dresser.

"That was the intent, yes," Hermione said patiently, marking her place in the book, "But even if Malfoy is successfully hidden, I don't think any amount of magic could cover up Voldemort's tracks."

Just then a knock sounded on the door, and Mrs. Weasley poked her head in. "Dinner's ready, you three."

"Coming," Ron told her, and the three headed down to the kitchen of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, current Headquarters of the Order of the Pheonix, also the recuperation centre for victims of the war, and their temporary home.

A subdued group gathered around the scrubbed wooden table for dinner, which was, by Mrs. Weasley standards, not very delicious. Or maybe it was just the oppression of the aftermath of the war hanging above their heads like a storm cloud, or the unhealed wounds inflicted upon all by the loss of their loved ones. Either way, nothing anyone ever did had life anymore.

Nobody felt inclined to do much, except wait for news of Voldemort's whereabouts before planning their next move. Harry, Ron, Hermione and the Weasleys were the only remaining members of the Order now, and every meal they had together was a fresh reminder that all the empty seats around the table would never be filled by the same people again, because they were gone, they were dead, and they would never come back.

Harry was halfway through his casserole when they were interrupted by banging on the door. Harry tensed immediately, sharing worried looks with the others.

Their Fidelius Charm was still supposed to be working, and they hadn't told anyone about it either. There weren't any Death Eaters left who would be causing a ruckus right outside their door, and the Ministry had enough on their plates without bothering the Order. So who could it be?

Ever the impulsive one, Harry made a split-second decision. Before anyone could stop him, he had leapt up, dashed to the front door and flung it open.

His jaw dropped. Standing outside the door was Draco Malfoy, whose whereabouts he had only been speculating with Ron and Hermione a while ago.

Malfoy looked terrible, his pale blonde hair was all messed up, he had dark bruises under his eyes, he was so pale he was almost translucent, and he was so thin Harry was sure there was nothing but bone under his skin. Harry wasn't sure why, but he was wearing a crimson shirt and pants, which contrasted sharply with his too-pale complexion.

Malfoy looked scared out of his life, though Harry was pretty sure it had nothing to do with him. "Potter…" he rasped hoarsely, his voice sounding like sandpaper, "Please…"

Before Harry could ask what he meant by that, Malfoy slumped forward and fainted, his whole body going limp.

Harry caught him before he hit the floor, pulling him inside and wondering just what he was thinking, letting the last Death Eater into his house, even if he was weak and passed out.

Carrying the surprisingly light weight of Malfoy, Harry went back into the living room, whereupon he deposited his charge on a couch. The light made Malfoy look like a vampire, straight from one of his DADA textbooks. Harry noticed the scarlet shirt he was wearing was wet, and bent to examine it.

His hand came off stained a deep red, which, judging from the salty tang of the smell, could only be blood. With a horrified gasp, Harry realized Malfoy was bleeding profusely, which meant that his crimson shirt –

_Shit_. If Malfoy had lost enough blood to stain his shirt like that, it was quite a miracle he wasn't yet dead. He supposed the shirt had been white at some point. Harry, having no particular expertise in the matter of healing, did the only thing he could think of.

"MRS. WEASLEY!" he yelled, so loudly the portrait of Mrs. Black woke up and started screaming, too.

"BLOOD TRAITORS! MUDBLOODS! FILTH! SCUM! A DISHONOUR TO THE NOBLE NAME OF BLACK –" she screeched, before Harry stormed over and wrenched the hangings shut.

"What is it, Harry, dear?" Mrs. Weasley asked worriedly, appearing in the doorway of the kitchen.

"It's Malfoy, he's hurt," Harry told her, gesturing towards the couch.

"_Who?_" The look on Mrs. Weasley's face would have scared Harry, had it not been for the fact that Malfoy was dying, and now was not the time to hold grudges. Malfoy, as the last surviving Death Eater, most likely had valuable information about Voldemort, after all, and it just wouldn't do to let him bleed to death.

"Please, Mrs. Weasley. I know what he did indirectly to you and your family, but he might have information about Voldemort," Harry said beseechingly, giving her his best pleading look.

"Fine," she acquiesced, pursing her lips, before turning her attention to the unconscious young man slowly dying on the couch. "Help me get the rag he's wearing off, would you, Harry?"

As Mrs. Weasley bustled off to fetch healing supplies, Harry got to work on Malfoy's shirt. This was easier said than done, however, as the blood-soaked shirt clung to the blonde's chest like a second skin, and Harry really didn't want to hurt him by accidentally scraping a wound.

Eventually finished undoing the buttons, and the shirt slid off to reveal the wounds that had been inflicted upon Malfoy. _Bloody hell_. Etched onto the blonde's chest were a pattern of cuts and gashes, marring the pale flesh that had once been, but now was covered with blood.

A crash sounded behind him, as the medical kit Mrs. Weasley was carrying into the room fell to the floor. She had undoubtedly seen Malfoy's injuries and had a bit of a shock.

"That – that looks painful," she said weakly, waving her wand and sending the fallen supplies soaring back into her arms. Then her motherly instincts seemed to kick in, and she strode towards where Harry was standing by Malfoy.

Harry stood to one side as she murmured healing spell after healing spell, occasionally handing her dittany or Skele-Gro, which she force fed Malfoy's unconscious form. Mrs. Weasley was a wonder at Healing; pretty soon all that was left of cuts were pink scars.

As the gashes slowly healed, Harry noticed an older scar, shaped like a jagged lightning bolt, running the length of Malfoy's chest, slashing diagonally from his left shoulder to his right hipbone. With a pang of guilt, he realized it was a memento from their sixth year, when he had fired the Sectumsempra at the other boy, almost killing him in the process.

He wondered what Malfoy must feel, to be reminded of his near-fatal incident every time he looked into a mirror, to revisit and relive the pain every single time. And Harry was the one who had caused it. Malfoy must hate him; anyone would hate the person who had done something so terrible to them.

"He's still losing blood," Mrs. Weasley said, frowning down at Malfoy, casting a diagnostic spell over the blonde as he spoke, "Is he hurt anywhere else?"

"I dunno, it doesn't look like it…" Harry trailed off, finally noticing the dark red stain on the couch, which definitely hadn't come from Malfoy's front. "Hang on, I think his back's hurt, too."

With Mrs. Weasley's help, he managed to flip Malfoy over onto his front so they could tend to his back injuries. This one didn't look too serious, just a gash across his back, although it was obviously quite deep. Mrs. Weasley healed that, too, with a few spells and dittany.

"Well, I think that's it," she told him, scanning Malfoy with the diagnostic spell once more, "I don't think he's hurt anywhere else, we might as well let him rest for a bit. Stay with him and tell me when he wakes, will you, Harry? He looks like an underfed vampire."

Harry nodded mutely and settled in a chair across from the couch where Malfoy lay, still out cold.

TO BE CONTINUED…


End file.
